First
by Anon and anon
Summary: A serious mis-understanding leads to confusion and hurt. Luckily, neither Dumbledore nor Snape were the type to let things lie. FINISHED, SLASH, NOT AD/SS and NO CHAN.
1. Chapter 1

*A/N: Firstly, all characters, places, etc., are not mine. Secondly, my apologies for those of you waiting for updates on stories – as I mentioned, my posting schedule is completely random and unplanned, and I thank you all for your kind support and understanding! I do hope you enjoy this in the meantime =) This will most likely have a handful of chapters, though no set limit has been decided yet*

"Headmaster – I ... I have to ask if you would arrange something for me."

Harry Potter, the Man-Who'd-Destroyed-Voldemort, stood in the Headmaster's office, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The Headmaster himself sat across the desk, splendid in his wild robes, while Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Snape had arrayed themselves in the armchairs around the desk. Professor Sprout was busy, alas, with some mandrakes that needed emergency re-potting, but Harry was only too glad to have one less person in the room to witness this. It was bad enough that _he_ was here, after... but Harry quickly blocked that thought, stonewalling off the hurt and anguish that would have followed.

"But Harry, my dear boy, I thought you had somebody in mind."

"I did." The young man took a deep breath, and his hands clenched into fists before he looked at them again. "But I was rejected. Quite thoroughly, in fact."

Three jaws dropped in unison. Dimly, Dumbledore and Snape both registered the squeak as Filius fell off his chair, and McGonagall's surprised huff. To reject the request for a First – well, it was quite possibly the greatest expression of disgust and disdain a witch or wizard could perform. It implied that the asker was considered less than human, that they were deplorable enough that the request to be their First was more insult than honor.

Although titillating myths about First rituals had been around for centuries, it had absolutely nothing (or very little, at least) to do with intercourse; rather, the First was simply someone the witch or wizard trusted enough to stand guard the night of their 19th birthday, when they came into their full power. Without a First there, to ground the newly developed power and control, a witch or wizard could do severe damage to themselves and others. It could, of course, include intimacy, which was one of the ways to ground power – but more than that, it was the ultimate expression of trust and the hope for some type of sustained relationship, whether it be friendship, mentorship, or something more.

No one in Severus' recollection of the past Hogwarts classes had ever been rejected – and for this to happen to the Golden Boy was all too implausible. Before he could stop himself, Severus found himself sneering out an automatic taunt.

"So, the Golden boy has his first taste of rejection. A long time coming, don't you think?"

The impact of Snape's mocking words hit Harry like physical blows, and jerked Dumbledore out of his private thoughts. He saw how Harry flinched, and immediately turned to his Potions Master, blue eyes flashing with anger.

"Severus Snape, that was beyond uncalled for. You will sit there, and stay completely silent, or you will leave this room _immediately_."

From the look on Severus's face, even the acerbic Potion's Master realized that he had pushed too far this time. Dumbledore kept a steady glare at the man until he had bowed his head apologetically, then moved back to look at Harry, still standing before his desk.

Dumbledore looked at the hurt young man before him, and felt sorrow and anger in equal measures. Here was a young man with more heart, and spirit, and sheer goodness than any person Albus had ever met; Harry had sacrificed more than the most battle-hardened soldier, and lived through a life of hurt and disappointment with barely a whimper. This, though, this last rejection – Harry was the last person to deserve such an insult, and Albus feared it had finally broken the spirit behind those too-old green eyes. It was only the last in a series of rejections that had started with the Dursleys, and Albus's ancient heart ached fiercely with the irrational need to somehow make this better.

"Oh, my dear boy.... _that_, you did not deserve. Never doubt that you are highly prized by a great many people, myself among them; I can only say that this individual did not deserve the great honor that your trust was. I will, of course, arrange something if you would like it that way; are you sure you wouldn't like to make use of your Tokens, though? I do realize how much you put into them."

Green eyes met his, and there was hurt and weariness, but also a terrible resignation in that gaze. "No thank you sir. It might seem weak but I have no desire to try again. And, besides..." and here Harry shifted his feet nervously, gaze moving to some spot above Albus's head, "I left the gifts for them, anyway. It's not like I had much use for them, and they were put together with only one person in mind. I'd rather not keep the reminders, if it's all the same."

This time, each person in the room felt the weight of those words descend. They each knew Harry Potter in their own way, and none of them doubted that the Tokens he had created to signal his interest were both incredibly valuable and extremely rare. The same determination and power that he had put towards destroying Voldemort would have been put into the effort for this, and all of them, even one Severus Snape, felt for the young man who couldn't even get a break in this.

"Of course, Harry," Dumbledore replied gently. "Why don't I arrange something and we can, perhaps, discuss if over lunch sometime soon?"

The Man-Who'd-Destroyed-Voldemort's mouth twitched slightly at the corner – not quite a smile, but an acknowledgement, nonetheless, that the close relationship he and the Headmaster had built over the last few years was still there and that somebody, in the end, did care a great deal about his personal welfare.

"Of course, Headmaster. Perhaps later this week?"

"That would be lovely, Harry. And do call me Albus – I do think we're quite past the time of student and Headmaster, and family never does address me by title."

Albus savoured the stunned looks on the faces looking back at him, but concentrated most on Harry, who, before he ducked his head, could be seen to be slightly glassy-eyed. There wasn't anything Albus could do about the situation, much as he wished to – but he could, and would, he swore, remind Harry that there were individuals who cared for and valued him.

Harry took one more deep breath, and then looked back towards the Headmaster. "I'll see you later this week, then. And... and thank you – Albus."

There was a short, quick smile, and then Harry was gone, out the door and down the staircase before any reply could be made.

Humming absently to himself, Albus quickly finished off the meeting and dismissed his teachers from the room. Ever since the topic had first been brought up, he knew that Harry had had somebody, and somebody specific in mind. He wasn't hurt that Harry hadn't asked him – they did, after all, already have a fairly steady bond in place, and although nothing had been said, he'd known that Harry was looking for something more from the First rituals. After the war, and all that he's been through, Harry was too much an adult at eighteen, almost nineteen, to want a parental figure, or even another mentor. No, Harry would be wanting someone who'd be an equal, a partner, somebody who would have the strength of character to ground the immense amount of power the young man would soon wield, and somebody to share a life with.

And put like that, Albus thought, there were only so many candidates. He popped a candy into his mouth, and started composing a list. He might not be able to do anything specifically, but that, he knew, was what plausible deniability was for.

* * *

_Meanwhile, several floors down and three corridors to the right:_

The portrait squeaked as the door was slammed behind a frustrated Potions Master. Severus Snape _hated_ puzzles, and he _hated_ not knowing who the mysterious idiot who'd rejected Potter was. It was, he acknowledged bitterly, a left-over from his only-recently-complete spying days – after all, for a spy, not knowing information exponentially increased the risk of dismemberment and painful death.

In the last two years of the war, he'd come to what he thought was a tentative truce with Harry Potter – constantly attacking Death Eaters, too little sleep and a too-long war meant that there was little room or energy for friction between two of the most powerful and key figures in the Order. And that, Severus thought, entirely proved his point – _obviously_ their relationship had improved somewhat, if he could acknowledge Potter's power without an accompanying insult. Harry Potter had grown up, mostly out of necessity as the death toll had risen, and so Severus thought it was _quite_ valid for him to question why the Boy Wonder hadn't mentioned the rejection to Severus beforehand. Of course, it wasn't like they were in the habit of sharing confidences, but all too often they'd had to guard each other's back, or had ended up in a sticky situation with only each other to rely on. The enforced closeness had bred a type of familiarity, and even though Severus hadn't curbed his acidity towards the Golden Boy one bit, he was still pretty sure that Harry Potter knew and understood him better than almost anyone besides Albus and Minerva, and vice versa. _Why,_ then, could he not figure out who Potter had approached?

It was as he was pouring a tumbler of brandy from his well-stocked cabinet that Severus Snape saw the small pile of packages on his table – he blamed his distracted thoughts for not noticing earlier. Cautiously, and carefully, his paranoia not decreased one bit in the months since the war, he sent wave after wave of spells to check for everything from contact poisons to tracing spells.

Finally satisfied, and with his curiosity racketing to a fever pitch, Severus reached out with a long-fingered hand to pick up the packages. There was a crystal vial, almost as large as his hand, and the Potions Master examined it carefully before gasping in shock and placing it down with trembling hands. Undiluted basilisk venom was both rare and incredibly expensive, and Severus could think of no-one who would leave him such a ridiculously extravagant gift. The table also held two ancient, musty books, and Severus had to sit down as he read the flyleaf of each – both were rare Potions and history tomes that could only be found in the old Pure-blood libraries, the type of library that Severus had never been able to gain access to.

The last item was tiny and golden, a small, ornate SS in gold attached to a fine chain. The magic radiating from it, however, was beyond impressive and the flummoxed Potions Master felt the dormant magic in the amulet wash over him as it attuned the necklace to his personal magical signature. Somebody had made this specifically for him, and had felt – did feel? – enough protectiveness and caring for him to weave some of the strongest defensive spells imaginable into it and then attune them to him. Shakily, Severus fastened the amulet around his neck, letting it fall under his robes, and felt the warm touch of its magic wash comfortingly over him once again.

He felt curiously off-kilter, and knocked back the brandy he had poured, glad only that no-one else had been around to see his discomposure. There was a hollow, sick feeling in his stomach that only increased as he noticed the folded note that had been lying below the books, and he swallowed down sudden and intense nausea as he picked up the heavy parchment and unfolded it carefully.

The sharp black eyes skimmed over the letter incredulously, and then the parchment was left to flutter to the floor as the Potions Master cursed violently and stormed from the room.

_Professor Snape – _

_Please be assured I have no intent of pressing the offer that had so disgusted you. I know you have no desire for these, but they were made for you nonetheless. Do with them what you will._

_Harry Potter _

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

*A/N: First off, thanks to the many, many people who contacted me in a variety of ways about this story – it was definitely appreciated, and plays a huge part in keeping this story going. Secondly, I still do not own the characters, places, etc of Harry Potter – I just enjoy fiddling with them. Thirdly, I'm not expecting this story to be very long – although, as usual, I cannot give an update schedule, I'm not predicting too many more chapters before the conclusion. Thanks once more, and I hope you enjoy!*

* * *

"Headmaster."

"Severus."

Albus Dumbledore could not remember the last time Severus Snape had looked quite so discomposed. No, actually, perhaps that was a lie – he could quite clearly recall the day young Snape had realized what a life of serving Voldemort would be like, and had come, broken and anchorless, to plead with his old headmaster to make some sense of his disordered world.

Since that fateful day, however, the spy, though often harsh and angry, had never lost his calm as he had now. His face, usually sneering or implacable, showed an intriguing mix of frustration and remorse, and even the man's usually impeccable robes were disordered and mussed.

"Severus," he repeated. "Sit down, my boy, and tell me what is wrong."

The spy hesitated, then virtually collapsed into a chair, and Dumbledore's trepidation mounted. The tall, lank man in front of him took self-possession to the greatest heights, and Dumbledore had seen Severus Snape face Dark Lords and rampaging swarms of giants and Dementors with nary a shake in his facade.

Severus opened his mouth once, twice, but no words came out. With a trembling hand, he reached up to his neck and pulled out the small, golden amulet hanging there, pulling it off to gently place it into his mentor's hand.

Keen blue eyes focused on the tiny amulet, brow quickly rising in wonder at the massive amount of magic swirling through and around it. The shape of it, and the power, was carefully noticed and with an almost visible click, Dumbledore realized that things suddenly began to make sense.

The greasy black head across from him came up, and Severus finally found the words. "He asked me, Albus, and somehow I rejected him _and I don't remember any of this_."

And then, somehow, the words just kept coming and Severus spilt the whole, sorry mess of regret and confusion to the Headmaster, in a verbal barrage the liked of which he had only done but once before.

* * *

It took Albus Dumbledore, with all his considerable intellect, several moments to process once Severus had finished. Great wisdom and vast age aside, even he had to admit that this was not a situation he'd ever thought to deal with. He'd been party to his boys' changing circumstances, had been pleasantly surprised when they'd begun to work, and work well, with each other. He _hadn't _been aware that the mutual respect they'd forged had meant so much to them, and frankly, considering Severus's barbed response to Harry's earlier confession, had though there was good reason to still suspect some antipathy.

Now, however, looking at the man sitting before him, Albus wondered how he could have missed it. For all his much-vaunted observation skills, Albus wryly mused, apparently some things still managed to surprise him.

"I will have you know, Severus, that I had quite firmly been of a mind to have a small... chat with the individual who so managed to hurt my grandson."

Severus looked up into the Headmaster's sharp blue gaze, and winced internally. He'd completely forgotten in his panic that Albus was quite furious with whoever had hurt his young protégé; now, Severus realized he was facing the wizard who'd defeated Grindlewald, having just confessed to hurting said wizard's adopted family, which was not exactly a comforting prospect.

"However," the Headmaster continued serenely, "in light of your current.... distress, and, of course, the fact that you are quite obviously going to fix this situation, I feel that I might put off that chat for... shall we say a week? A week is, after all, a great deal of time, and many things may – or _will_, shall I say– change in that time, will they not, Severus?"

Obeying the well-honed survival skills that had benefitted him so often in the past, Severus bit back the first two responses that came to mind(considering who he was facing, he very carefully arranged to not even _think_ them) and responded with a subdued "yes, Headmaster." Albus's subtly-edged orders had served to jolt Severus right out of his panic, and plans were rapidly being formed and re-formed in the spy's agile mind even as Severus headed towards the door.

"Oh, and Severus?" the headmaster called, just as he was about to leave. "I think the contents of your kitchen table shall be of great assistance to you. Just, of course, as a thought, my dear boy."

* * *

Severus isn't totally sure what he expects after that last cryptic comment – knowing the old man's twisted sense of humor, he half expects an extra-large bag of lemon sherbets, some sort of cheerful threat to his continued existence, or a pair of garish, fuzzy socks. (Snape will never admit it out loud, but there are times – rare times, but times nonetheless, when the utter insanity and inanity of Albus Dumbledore is almost a welcome balm to his soul. Come catastrophe, Dark Lords, utter destruction or the Apocalypse, he can at least be assured that Albus will try to solve it with candy. It shouldn't be soothing, and Severus blames previously undetected and unspecified head injuries for the fact that it makes him feel the least bit better.)

Either way, it isn't candy or socks (or cheerful threats to his health and continued well-being) that sit on his kitchen table. Rather, it's a Pensieve. Albus's Pensieve, to be exact.

Now, Severus Snape had not been in Slytherin, become a spy, and managed to stay alive for this long by being a patter-twitted idiot. _When in doubt, begin at the beginning_. It would be, he thought wryly, rather difficult to fix a problem when he'd had no idea the problem existed in the first place.

The first step, therefore, was to figure out when in Merlin's bloody beard he'd been stupid enough to reject Harry Potter. Or, rather, why Harry-bloody-Potter _thought _Snape was stupid enough to reject such an offer.

Because Severus wasn't, that stupid, obviously – no, Severus Snape was no rash, unthinking Gryffindor idiot, and he'd find the memories to prove it.

* * *

Six hours later, Severus Snape was slumped, empty tumbler in hand, staring dismally into the fire burning at his hearth.

So perhaps he wasn't a rash, unthinking Gryffindor – the idiot part would, however, be a bit harder to contest.

For oh yes, he had indeed found the memory. And he cursed himself for a damned, damned fool.

_He'd been sitting at his desk, a dull, pounding headache throbbing relentlessly in his temples. It'd been an excruciating day, one of those tiresome days when he'd almost wish for the return of the Dark Lord, who was at least predictable in dispensing torture and agony. His classes had blown up a record fifteen cauldrons in one day, and he'd had to spend forty minutes with that shrew, Pomfrey, getting potion-coated shrapnel dug out of his hand. The puling buffoons at the ministry Ministry had sent a letter indicating that they would need him to come in, once more, to sit and get interrogated by the suspicious, snot-nosed brats they called Aurors about his fellow Death Eaters. To top it all off, Albus had apparently decided to destroy what little sanity he had left by appointing him, Severus Snape, to chaperone the next Hogsmeade trip. _

_It was little wonder that the bottle of brandy he kept in his side drawer was now significantly lower in contents. _

_So his patience, and temper, were hardly in the best of moods when the pounding came at his door. In retrospect, Snape could see the knocking was quiet, almost nervous – at the time, however, it had seemed particularly sadistic, exacerbating the already painful thrum in his head. _

_His barked "Stop that infernal pounding!" probably should have been a good indication of temper, but Harry had entered anyway. It was in reviewing the memory that Snape had first noted the carefully polished shoes, the fact that under a pressed green robe, Harry had had on the first set of well-fitting clothes that Severus had ever seen him wear. For once, the Man-Who'd-Destroyed-Voldemort had looked exactly like what he was – the powerful, put-together heir of two of the Wizarding world's oldest families and a respected warrior and wizard in his own right._

_None of that had, of course, registered on his slightly tipsy and in-pain past self._

_Potter had been nervous, fumbling slightly with the opening phrases of the First offer. He'd barely got started however, when Snape, in pain and irritated, had cut him off soundly at the knees. _

"_Mr. Potter," he'd sneered, with more disdain than he'd thought possible, "I know not what gave the impression that I would be willing to listen to your pathetic Gryffindor meandering. I do know, however, that I regret it more than I've ever regretted anything previously, up to and including my service to the former Dark Lord. In short, I would rather listen to the puerile words of a syphilitic Knockturn alley whore. At least then I know I would gain something, no matter how poor, in return for the pain."_

The memory-him had turned back to the papers on his desk at that time, which is the only reason Severus could give for why he hadn't noticed the expression on Potter's – no, Harry's – face. The Saviour had turned white, and his face had tightened with a look Severus was all too familiar with; it was a look of resignation, when one had taken one blow too many and lacked the strength to try again.

It was with a sad, sick sense of irony that Severus Snape acknowledged one very important fact: the man who answered to Harry Potter had led and fought in a war, had been captured and tortured and struggled through, undeterred, to eventually kill the most powerful madman on Earth – and it had taken but a handful of careless, spiteful words at the hands of a bitter ex-Death Eater to break him.

And didn't that, Severus thought, peering at empty bottles and trembling hands, hurt like a veritable kick in the teeth.

* * *

He'd gone to bed, foul-tempered from unexpected sorrow and the feeling of having let something both fleeting and precious escape through his ignorant and careless fingertips. In the cold light of day, he woke up similarly distempered, barking at the house elf who brought his breakfast and nursing his aching head with dark mutters to himself.

As Severus let himself boil in the pounding heat of his shower, however, sanity began to reassert itself. So yes, he had messed up on a scale unforeseen by anybody not named Longbottom; on the other hand, for both his sake and Harry's, there was still a situation to be resolved and he was, in the end, still the cunning, sly Slytherin who'd help to direct the downfall of the Dark Lord.

As the hard spray drove the tension from his knotted muscles, Severus Snape began to do what he did best: Plot. Scheme. Plan. Harry was hurt, no doubt about it, and Severus had probably irreparably wrecked his chance at the First. But as the Potions Master well knew, losing one battle didn't mean he had to lose the war.

And then he was hastily turning off the tap, and reaching for his towel, as his thoughts suddenly coalesced into the perfect plan.

* * *

_Three days later, breakfast:_

Harry Potter, to put it bluntly, had been having a hell of a week. It was bad enough to be the only person in known history to be rejected by a possible First; it was much, much worse to be constantly reminded of it.

He was cynical enough, by now, to know better than to tell _anybody_ anything that he considered private info. The entire wizarding world, however, (a) knew his birthday and (b) could count. What this series of events added up to was being prodded and harassed, day-in and day-out, about who he'd be asking as his First.

Thankfully, the students at Hogwarts knew better than to bother him about his personal life; in hindsight, Harry felt like he should have realized sooner that unleashing the combined minds of Granger, Weasley (F), Weasley (G) and Weasley (R) on the school would be more than enough to protect his privacy. Both the twins and his best friends knew how much he hated the attention, and between Ron's strategic prowess, Hermione's vast knowledge and practical power, and the twin's diabolical mind, a fool-proof plan had been hatched. In the interests of plausible deniability, Harry knew nothing beyond the fact that the plan had involved three vats of liver paté, an early morning expedition into the Forbidden Forest and Hagrid's old boots; whatever they had done, however, was certainly effective and not one single student dared to ask Harry about the First.

The wizarding world at large, alas, had no such compunction. A seriously obscene number of postcards, letters and photos were sent daily by witches and wizards who either had advice to offer or thought they'd be perfect for his First; for Harry, all it had done was underscore, again and again, the fact that the one person he'd trust for this wanted nothing to do with him.

Rita Skeeter had tried to sneak onto school property a record-breaking 23 times in the first week; for a good portion of April, hordes of well-wishers or potential hopefuls had gathered at the gates of Hogwarts. Harry had thought that the mobs after he'd defeated Voldemort were bad, but this was infinitely worse. At least then they'd had the distraction of death and rebuilding – now, however, it seemed that nobody talked about anything _except_ Harry's upcoming First.

And there was still almost three months to go.

It was no wonder, then, that Harry was _not _a happy hero in general these days. It was one too many rejections, and Harry knew he was sinking into apathy, but had a hard time caring. If it weren't for his core group – Hermione and Ron, and Gred and Forge, Neville, and Luna and sometimes, oddly enough, Draco Malfoy – he wouldn't have given a flying Hippogriff about anything these days. His friends, however, wouldn't let him go, and he was, by turns, resentful and grateful for it at the same time.

Coming down to breakfast, then, Harry was both braced for the worst and genuinely looking forward to sitting amongst his friends. It was, after all, the only time he saw Luna and was when the Twins sent most of their letters and pranks. On the other hand, breakfast meant paper delivery, which was never generally a good thing, in his mind.

Breakfast went much as planned – pumpkin juice, and crisp bacon, saying hello to Luna, toast, marmalade, and stopping Hermione from killing Ron. Pretty much, in other words, like every other day.

What he wasn't expecting, however, was the huge, magnificently dark owl that came fluttering down before him and landed in his bacon about half-way through.

TBC.....


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Yes, finally, as promised - the concluding chapter! Thank you to all who have been so wonderful about waiting for this!_

* * *

_What he wasn't expecting, however, was the huge, magnificently dark owl that came fluttering down before him and landed in his bacon about half-way through..._

* * *

_At the front table..._

There were times, Albus Dumbledore thought contentedly, watching the black owl wing its way towards his adopted grandson, when life took turns that were simply unexpected. Yes, he knew that owl. And, for that matter, he knew, the moment he spotted what the owl held in its talons, what a simply wonderful plan the sly Professor Snape had come up with.

Oh, there was no doubt in his mind that Severus would figure out a way to fix this – no, the look on the Potion's Master face when he came to confess his folly left no doubt about it. But this – this, was beyond even the wily Headmaster's best expectations.

Happily, blue eyes twinkling, Albus popped another sweet into his mouth and cheerfully settled in to watch the show.

* * *

_Meanwhile..._

The entire Gryffindor table craned their necks, whispering and pointing furiously. Not five minutes ago, the mysterious owl had landed (literally) in their Saviour's bacon. There was much debate over what happened next, but by general agreement, the facts were as follows:

(1) Harry Potter had bemusedly looked at the owl, then taken the small package tied to its leg. (Sources still differed on what the package looked like – Dennis Creevey insisted it was squishy, and rather purple, but wiser heads had it at squashy, not squishy, and rather grey-blue instead.)

(2) Open looking at the package, and looking inside, Ron Weasley had mysteriously missed his mouth with the forkful of bacon, something that had never happened to any Weasley male in the history of Hogwarts. Hermione Granger had babbled something, then frantically pulled out a book and started flipping through it. This, everyone agreed, was rather more normal and not, therefore, an important part of the story.

(3) No, the truly exciting part was when Harry Potter had looked down at the package, started violently, turned remarkably pale, and gaped soundlessly for a minute before turning an even more remarkable shade of red. As current Hogwarts gossip indicated that the Golden Boy had dispatched Voldemort with barely a grimace or a trace of sweat, this small package obviously held something awe-inspiring or fantastically terrible. Current guesses ranged from a bottle of the Elixir of Life, to Merlin's lost staff, to Voldemort's favourite purple fuzzy socks (well, only Dennis Creevey believed the last, but...)

(4) Then, the Golden Trio had, as one, turned to the Head Table, then turned to look at one another, and then had all but run from the room. Padma Patil, who'd been watching particularly closely, was the only one to notice that Draco Malfoy had caught a glimpse of the package – and had looked quite astonished by what he'd seen.

As it turned out, there were several elements of truth in the furiously raging gossip. Draco Malfoy had indeed seen the package, but was keeping his mouth unexpectedly, and firmly, shut. He, too, had recognized the owl, and, as luck would have it, would be the one other person in the hall, aside from the Golden Trio, the Headmaster, and a certain dark-haired Potion's Master, to fully understand the implications of what had just happened.

Oh, and yes, the package had held something rather extra-ordinary, something fantastical, something that was largely rumoured to be mythical – for the package, you see, that small, knobbly package (blue-grey, not purple, thank you), had contained Severus Snape's heart and soul.

* * *

_In the Room of Requirement, where all good Saviours flee in times of stress:_

The silence was broken by one Ron Weasley, his voice unexpectedly sober.

"I have to say, mate, that that is one he- heck, sorry, 'Mione – of an apology. He might still be a greasy git and a world-class bastard, but for all that – " and here, his voice turned rueful, " he's a bloody bastard with both class and balls!"

Still stunned into silence, Harry finally moved to pick up the letter that had come with the unexpected package.

_Dear Mr. Potter, _he read –

_Dear Mr. Potter; _

_I am sorry. You know me well enough to realize, I am sure, how rarely I say those words. There are few excuses – no, no excuses – for my behaviour. I did not recognize the purpose which led you to my door, and am now, deservedly, grieving the lost of something precious, something wonderful, something incredibly dear to me, that I now have no right to claim. I speak, of course, of your trust and your friendship. I have never spoken of it, but the one thing I do not regret about the war is that it allowed me to rectify some of my earlier, unjust harshness towards you._

_It was not until I came down from our meeting yesterday that I came upon your Tokens and realized what they were – and realized, therefore, what I had done. I have undergone torture and pain, and have inflicted the same – but never have I felt such regret for any single action. And yes, Mr. Potter, I am including the time my misguided teenage self foolishly took the Dark Mark . _

_I do not expect you to forgive me, and realize that I shall regret my folly for the rest of my days. There is no way to make this up to you, Harry, and I expect no more second chances. I do, however, wish you to know this: it would have been my pleasure, my honor, in fact, to have been able to stand as your first. Your trust, in giving your hopes and Tokens to me, might have been misplaced. I, however, in giving these tokens and trust to you, know of no safer or better place for them to be. _

_With regards and regret, _

_Severus Snape_

* * *

_Later that evening_

There was a knock at the door.

Severus Snape, though he would never acknowledge it, was brooding. Emotional connections, friendships, caring, all had been scarce in the course of his life. As a young man, he had driven away Lily Evans, with cruel words, and then had succumbed to his blasted pride and therefore lost, forever, the chance to make it up to her.

He'd sworn that he would never humble himself before a Potter; yesterday, however, cradling a hot mug in long, elegant fingers, he had come to the realizations that older, wiser, he would not let pride stand in his way. Perhaps, for the first time, there was something more valuable at stake than his damnable pride – and, as he had reminded himself, Harry Potter was infinitely different, and infinitely more worth the risk, than James Potter had ever been. He'd written truly, what he said in the note – somewhere, over the course of a long and bloody war, Harry Potter had become the person that he trusted and valued most.

These, and other thoughts, were winding through his mind, when the knock came at the door.

Severus startled.

He had not been expecting anyone – he'd _hoped, _of course, but the likelihood of that was –

Cutting off that thought before it could form, Severus Snape opened his door, and promptly did his best not to hyperventilate.

"Hello, Professor Snape – might I come in?"

"Nrgk."

"Thank you, sir."

Five minutes later, after brewing tea and passing around biscuits, Severus Snape had managed to gather himself together – or at least give the impression of it. He took a slow, deliberate sip of tea, drawing on all his training in Occulmency and as a spy to hold himself together, before moving to truly look at his guest.

Harry Potter was perched on his sofa, hands clasped nervously around a familiar package. Feeling Severus's gaze upon him, green eyes rose slowly to meet black. Just as slowly, and infinitely more carefully, Harry gently laid the contents of the package on the low table between them.

Three small objects - such small things, Severus mused, to pin one's hopes and dreams on. Seeing the unspoken question, the need for reassurance in the bright green eyes, the Potion's Master did his best to allay some of the harm he had done.

"I meant what I said, Harry – these are gifts, and there is no one I would trust them more to."

Both men paused, for a moment, to consider the objects – three small glass spheres, the largest no bigger than a grape, each swirling with life and magic.

Harry touched a gentle finger to the first, smallest one, brilliant blue and the size of a teardrop. "Your heart," he said, tracing the rune inscribed on the side. "You gave me your heart."

"And my soul, and my magic. Yes. And I do not regret it one bit."

In the course of researching the Horcruxes, the golden trio had come across mention of these spheres, but never had they seen more than an illustration of one. The first, to represent the Heart, was tied to the heartbeat, the lifeblood of the giver. It was one of the oldest protection magics in the Wizarding world– for it represented a drop of Severus's life, freely given, that could be used to hold Harry back from the brink of death. The second, Soul, was the Light version of a Horcrux, and the reason the Golden Trio could identify the spheres on sight. Rather than being created through murder, however, Soul spheres were created as incredibly valued gifts, and were a sign of absolute trust. Symbolically, it represented the implicit promise that Harry would never be alone. The last and largest of the three, the Magic sphere, was the equivalent of the locket Harry had given Severus – imbued with the giver's magic, meant for protection and comfort, and representing a well of magic that Harry could tap into when his own great power was drained dry.

"These are – I can't, Severus, it's – "

The man in question stiffened.

"Are you rejecting them?" _Are you rejecting me?_

Someone less attuned to the moods of Severus Snape might have thought the words confrontational; Harry, well used to the man after eight years of acquaintance, the last two of those in close proximity, knew better. There was hurt there, and hope, too, both buried under a quiet resignation – that one more thing had gone wrong, one last chance for happiness forever lost because of a moment of stupidity. That weary resignation was something Harry knew all too well. It also hadn't escaped Harry's notice that the decanter of brandy that lay on the sideboard was now filled with water, and he suspected, that should he look, that there would not be a single drop of alcohol anywhere on the premises. Together, it was a silent testament towards just how much he meant to the man sitting across from him.

Harry was wary, and still hurt, but he _knew_ this man, cared for this man, and knew that for him, there would be no other like Severus Snape. For all his faults, the Potions Master had been one of the rock-solid constants of Harry's life, and was the one person he trusted and wished least to see hurt.

"No. No, I'm not rejecting them. I... it'll take a while, Severus, but perhaps – could we just start with tea?"

And in the quiet of a Hogwarts night, while students and teachers both slept comfortably in their beds, the two men sat and shared a companionable cup. Not all was fixed or forgiven, but the message had been sent and received – _what we share is too important to throw away because of a mistake_ – and at this time, wounds, carelessly inflicted, began to slowly heal.

* * *

_Epilogue - Three weeks later_

"Ah, Harry my boy, and Severus! You both are looking much better and a great deal more rested! Lemon drop, gentlemen?"

"No thank you, si – Albus."

"I'll thank you to stop inflicting those nauseous sweets willy-nilly, Headmaster, before they rot your brain as well as your teeth!"

"Cheerful as ever, Severus! Well, Minerva, Filius, Pomona – lemon drop? No? All right then, though how you can pass up their delectable lemony goodness, I shall never know. Anyhow – Harry, my boy, you mentioned you had something to discuss with all of us? And may I say, Severus, that was a rather wonderful gesture you made several weeks back – why, the student body is still quite a-twitter over it!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Albus – are you sure that your love of those ghastly sweets hasn't exacerbated your lamentable slide into senility?"

"Now, now, Severus , settle down. A drop of sugar might even sweeten your temper, dear boy! Oh, but forgive me my distraction – Harry – you had something you wished to discuss?"

"Ah – yes, sir – sorry, Albus. Actually, something to witness, should you all not mind. Well... yes, I'll just stand here, if you don't mind shifting slightly, sir. Thank you. Now... I know several of you are not aware of the full story, but I've asked you here to see the end of this. Um... so: Severus Snape. I, Harry James Potter, ask you most humbly if you would consent to stand as my First. Would you be willing to keep watch while I am weak, and to assist me in my strength? Will you act as a partner, a friend, a guide, guardian and a force for grounding in this time, the time of my magical inheritance?"

There was a shocked pause, but one man did not hesitate, dark eyes lightening and thin lips twitching up into a small, but genuine smile.

"Harry James Potter – it would be my absolute honor."


End file.
